


Hair Of The Dog That Bit Ya (the demon barber remix)

by oonaseckar



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Hair, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Prank Wars, aesthetic arguments, hair cuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, all right, maybe Charles <i>had</i> needed that haircut.  But Erik could have <i>asked</i> first.  Not to worry, Charles can think of an entirely appropriate response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Of The Dog That Bit Ya (the demon barber remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WendyShad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyShad/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fix you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757927) by [WendyShad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyShad/pseuds/WendyShad). 



The snick and snip of the _ad-hoc_ razor-edge, down and then up again as it traverses the little hollow of Charles' nape, has a tingle that's like silver, like mercury, like a bell sounding in one neuron after another, baton handed from nerve to nerve till his whole body sings with it, an excessive campanular – campanological? – festivity, in a cathedral built of flesh.

And at this point he really does fucking resent Erik still being able to do that to him. Wonders of telepathy, though: thank Christ that he can school his own mind to control his body. Not a shiver out of him, not a visible tingle, not a sigh. And a perfectly level, unimpressed look in his eyes, as he stares into the mirror and into Erik's own eyes. Erik, who of course isn't even looking _back_ , is busy brushing loose hair from Charles' cheeks and neck, shaking off the towel, playing barber to his own fullest satisfaction.

'Thank you so much,' Charles says dryly. 'What do I owe you? I'm not sure I have enough change on me for a tip, it'll have to wait until next time.'

That does amuse, evidently. Erik brushes his hands off, looks up and grins cheerfully. 'Tightwad. It's always the loaded ones. My old _Zayde_ was a barber's apprentice, back before he set up the family business. Said the richest clients were the ones that stiffed him, every time.'

And he reaches with a hand that's put down the razor and scissors, now, has no business or occupation to be messing, fiddle-faddling with Charles. The silver balls are restored and pocketed, no further need of mirror or blades. But still he reaches out, and brushes it down Charles' cheek, one more time. It could be a tease, it could be affectionate, it's certainly all proprietary. How very sure of himself he is and has always been, and of Charles too.

'Well, thanks for the freshening up, anyhow,' Charles says, tightly. His heart hammers, and he thinks fury might have finally overmastered his natural affections. 

'No problem,' Erik says, and turns away, reaches for his helmet – which has popped up, once again – and he's ready to go. Because isn't he always? 'I couldn't stand to see you looking such a scruffbag. Public service, you can call it. _De nada, gratis, bupkes_.'

And Charles tips his head, and narrows his eyes, very thoughtfully. ' _Scruffbag_ ,' he repeats. Erik isn't quite quick enough, with the helmet.

Charles has honed his skills a lot, lately. It's needle-sharp and quick, precise, a surgical psionic strike that Erik never feels. And all Charles does is to plant a seed. Something to grow, slow but inexorable. Like hair.

xxx

Two months later he gets a call from an untraceable number. It's Emma, and he appreciates the courtesy. Better than an attempt at mental invasion, even a failed attempt, even a flagged-up polite version. 'My dear,' he greets her, in response to her curt snap of 'Xavier'. 'To what do I owe – '

'What have you done, Professor?' Emma snaps, dizzyingly abrupt. 'Don't come the innocent with me. I've gone over every other possible explanation, and I'm as certain as I can be, barring the kind of mind-scan that Magneto's too paranoid to let me have at, that there's no-one but _you_ could have produced the kind of effects that we're seeing in our beloved leader. So, out with it, Xavier. Why does Magneto suddenly think he looks fetching in a Beatle-crop? And not only that: he's decided to start sporting a _pencil moustache_. Oh, you can laugh,' she snarls, and it's good that he's got permission, because he's already made a start on that. 'I've got premises, funding and staff booked for my fashion house in the clothing district of Paris. How do you think it's going to look for me, with Magneto mixing up eras and sporting looks that are ten years out of date? I'll be a laughing-stock. Not a soul in the industry is going to take me seriously, and that's even if Yves Saint-Laurent doesn't decide to stop copying my personal look – the only thing that's given me a head-start and some credibility. I won't even get _started_ on Mary Quant. That bitch was at finishing school with me, and if her knife isn't in my back, it's only because I know what she got up to with the school nurse.' Perhaps she comes to herself at this point: arrests the tangent. ' _Why_ , Xavier? Why have you done this to me?'

Charles sees no need to concede a damn thing. 'Why, Emma,' he says, innocent as you please and rubbing his hands fiendishly, just as if she could see. It probably comes across anyway.. 'Why would you finger _me_ for the culprit? And for that matter, why would you think that Magneto hasn't merely had a sad lapse of taste? Maybe he thinks that it's a good look. I know he used to be quite a stylish chappie, but even you, my dear, you must admit that he's experienced certain – lapses – in taste, of recent date. Must I say the word 'magenta' to you? Also 'cape'. I could, indeed, go on with the word _helmet_ , but if we essay a venture into the pornographical arena then I fear – '

'Shut up,' Emma says. 'Or I will put a metaphorical stalactite through your cerebellar cortex. No-one is disputing that Erik's taste has suffered a sudden and disastrous – vertiginous – decline. I'll even concede you _cataclysmic disaster_. There have been... aberrations. All the same, he still observes – has observed – a certain _minimum standard_ of style and decorum. A Beatle-crop transgresses that by a stark and unacceptable degree, Xavier. Face-fuzz?... Magneto is not a man to tolerate facial adornment. He considers it insufficiently spare and minimalist, an offence against good grooming. Or he always _has_ done. Xavier, why don't you just stop coming it with the soothing fairy-stories. Don't try to get one past _me_. Why don't you just admit – ' 

'I admit nothing,' Charles interpolates smoothly. 'But I can well recommend an excellent brand of barber's shears. And if Magneto can't be persuaded to abandon his pursuit of decorative facial hair, then at least you can ensure that his mode of trimming and dressing it is classically approved. In my own library, there on the twentieth century history shelf, you will find a history of facial adornment, and on page eighty-two there is a fisherman-style which is quite tasteful. You may find it useful to visit and borrow this tome to – '

The piercing shriek that this elicits from Emma is enough to get Charles holding the receiver a good foot or two from his ear. If she could reproduce the effect telepathically, through his shields, then he'd be pouring melted brain out his ears. When she's done – and he hears the little panting breath through the wires, that tells him she hasn't breath for more womanly fury and expressions of hysteria, or not _yet_ – he cautiously returns it to rest against his pearly shell-like, and can't repress a chuckle. It's probably ill-advised, though.

Emma breathes heavily a moment or two longer, before she utters. It's a voice of doom. 'There will be repercussions over this, Xavier. Mark my words. For you and yours, _extreme repercussions_.'

'Why, Miss Frost,' Charles says lightly. 'I quake in my Savile row brogues, stylish as they are, though no doubt not half as much as your pretty Italian leather. Do you think Magneto might be persuaded to patronise my cobbler? And perhaps my barber too. Or are you bound to see him in Birkenstocks, one of these fine days? What do you think, Emma?'

The splinter and crunching in his ears, suggests that at the other end of the line, Emma Frost has thrown her telephone at the wall, as punctuation and response. Charles snickers lightly. One must derive some amusement out of life, after all. And if you can't be with the one you love, then torture the fuck out of them and theirs, as an acceptable alternative... Oh. He shuts down on that, damn quick. Not half so amusing, suddenly.

xxx

Nor is he laughing when he notices the drain filling up with hair when he showers, three weeks or so later. (In fact, he's noticed it at least a time or two before this occasion. He's simply refused to accept it, that's the top and bottom of the matter. Disablement, abandonment, depression and isolation are one – two – three – four things. But there are some things that a non-existent Deity simply would not inflict on him, on Charles Xavier, Esquire, beau and adornment of the county set of Westchester, noted romeo of Harvard and Oxford, what passes muster as a charmer and lothario at every scientific conference across multiple continents.

Not his hair. Dear Lord, not his _hair_.

But yes, in fact, his hair. First it's suspicious, then it's deniable. Then it's worrying. And then _his fucking hair is falling out_.

He doesn't mention it to the kids for forty-eight hours. He needs the time to mourn.

His _hair_. His pride, his joy, his crowning glory, the puffed-up source of smugness of every nanny who ever dandled him on her knee, and cooed that his mother was a prize bitch and didn't appreciate what a little darling he was. Countless females, since he was last bald, at around five months – and even then, there's the photographic evidence that he was an engaging and cheeky-grinned cherub – have petted his glossy chestnut curls and _crooned_. Housekeepers, cooks, friends' mothers, the school nurse in his teens (and let's gloss over that one fast), Oxford bluestockings and Harvard co-eds, secretaries, nurses, Pepper Potts and Moira, at least two of his nurses during his rehabilitation from Erik's blasted little metallic beach present. Oh, not just women, either, of course. _Erik_ used to be very fond of Charles' hair, himself. Why else be so very proprietorial about it?

Charles is never going to be a six footer, and for all his boxing prowess, he's not built like a bodybuilder. You've got to lead with your strengths, he knows. And without his hair, his eyes are only going to get him so far. With the handicap of the chair, he'll be lucky to get laid once a blue moon, at this rate.

He sits and cries a bit, when he finally accepts it, to be perfectly honest. And not just the once, either. He's not one bit ashamed. Hair is very important, to self-image, to presentation, to thermal regulation of the scalp and bodily systems. It's a physiological advantage. It's not wrong, to mourn the loss of a physiological advantage. Oh _fuck_.

He might, yes, choose his legs over his hair, if he had his druthers. (He would not, in fact, choose Erik over his hair. Or not without considerable doubt and heart-searching. Erik thinks terribly well of himself, but he might consider that fact. And would, no doubt, if Charles had any intent of disclosing it.)

In a sopping wet wet-room, yanked and heaved onto a dripping manual chair with not one care for health and safety considerations, and stark bollock naked – and short on follicular advantages – Charles mourns, mourns a bit more. And then pulls himself together. 

And he wonders why he's giving up quite so easily. After all, prior to all the nonsense with time travel and extraordinarily bossy versions of their future selves, it wasn't as if he and Hank gave a _fig_ for common sense, or accepting reality. No, they made reality take a bleeding buggering _joke_ and re-wrote it. With him getting up out of his chair, and Hank presenting a presentable, de-blued and decidedly un-furry persona, at least on a part-time basis. So much easier to get into clubs along the Sunset Strip, if you're not blue and furry, they had found on the odd woman-hunt out. (What? They've been busy with the whole mutant cause, too. You just need a bit of light relief, let off steam now and then, allow the libido out and off the leash. Good God, Erik might he's the last word, the whole kit and caboodle, the alpha and omega of Charles' romantic and sexual being and existence. _Let_ him, that's all. Let him.) 

And now – as Charles sadly picks another strand from the very crown of his head, and his trichotillomanic efforts meet with no resistance, every hair root sliding out of its follicle only too readily – he decides that Hank will almost certainly have some ideas on the subject, to rescue Charles' beautiful endangered locks. He has to. One can live without love, if one must. But it's a much more difficult and perilous endeavour, a mortal wound to the _amour-propre,_ to live without hair.

xxx

Hank slumps his furry blue head on the lab desk, and sighs like one ostentatiously defeated. Also like one who rather wants to retire to bed, with a cup of Horlicks and a back copy of the Reader's Digest. 'Faery hex,' he suggests. It's the tone of one who only desires to be contradicted, mocked and dismissed.

But Charles isn't going to easily give up, not on any option that might lead to him not suffering a pate like a billiard ball, like a tonsured monk. He muses, chin in hand on chair-arm, and nods decisively. 'We should look into that,' he agrees. 'There are definitely some intriguing reports coming out of the Celtic countries, about possible genetic links between mainstream mutation in allopathic research, and the old supernatural myths. There might in fact – '

There's possibly a little bit of synchronicity, in the fact that it's as they're discussing the possibility that it's magical creatures with pretty wands and sticky-out skirts – Tinkerbell, basically, _do you believe in fairies, children?_ \- that an amazing creature, with miraculous powers, by happenstance appears in a corner of the lab in a puff of sulphurous smoke. And with a slightly startled stumble, tips into a table full of titration set-ups and report jars ready for the autoclave. To be fair, this chap is a fair bit bigger than Tinkerbell, a good six foot two, in fact. And muscular, frowning and well-dressed. Especially if reports of a tail being _de rigueur_ at the Spanish shows in April are correct. Tomato-red is also _totally_ his colour.

In short, it's Azazel.

'Xavier,' he complains, with a side-order of additional cursing and blasphemy, as he shoves a rack of test-tubes out of his way and onto the floor, and steadies his footing with his tail, linking it around a stray supporting column and clinging for all that he's worth. 'Do you really need to move the furniture around so goddamn much? That table was _distinctly_ not located there, last time. And you've shoved the tables up against the lab sinks again. Not to speak of the bathrooms, do you know I wound up with my legs tangled in the sheets in the linen-bin when I – '

And here he pauses, and looks from one to the other of them. Hank is wide-eyed – for all he has his very own fancy-schmancy Erdos number, and a Fields medal is just a matter of time and labour, sometimes it takes him a little while to add up two plus two. But Charles is giving his best patented mean stare – he does have one, doesn't use it much, fair do's, but he does _have_ one – and tapping a leg that isn't currently going to feel it with his fountain pen, like a lightly leashed leopard who's about to leap. And Hank jerks abruptly, because he's cottoned on, and he's _also_ cottoned on to the small, inconspicuous plastic bottle clasped in Az's crimson digits.

'I find myself in a peculiarly delicate position,' Az observes, with an unusually ingratiating smile. And he disappears again, with a pop and a sizzle. Perhaps not quite fast enough: Charles grimaces, and frowns, the look of a man wrestling with a pitbull, who rather wants to cry uncle, or give its neck a swift three-sixty, rather than insist on a submission, and negotiations for future behaviour.

And Az reappears. More pops, more puffs, more sizzling. And he's clutching his head very tenderly. 'Motherfucker, that was totally unnecessary,' he whimpers. 'You fight dirty, Xavier.' 

Charles' face is quite serene and unperturbed by the accusation, though, as he rolls towards the brotherhood member, reassembling and tidying test-tubes and waste-bins as he goes. And Hank follows, because, well, he doesn't have a taste for torture or sadism, but he's almost human. And this looks like it might be fun.

'We're going to have a little chat, Azazel,' Charles observes. 'About your nocturnal activities. About my bathroom. About my _hair_.'

xxx

An hour later, Az is nursing a Scotch and soda in the library, sulking at his captive state, and and at the copy of _Tristram Shandy_ he's currently perusing. (Because Charles is a very civilized Inquisition agent, and after a very slight bit of mental prodding and some wacky-races chasing around the lab, Az pretty much gave it up, and with only the odd snicker and giggle, landed both Emma and Mystique in it, as the originators of the dastardly deed, and the ones who'd egged him on. At which Charles had deemed it not unreasonable, to first drive into his ankles at some speed, and then begin to pelt him with test-tubes and paper towels, until Az was rescued by Hank).

Hank, who dumped galangal powder over him to stop further translocation, and upended him by the ankles from the third floor window, while asking him if that was a nice kind of way to treat a colleague in the battle to protect mutants, hmmm? _Is it, Az? Do you know what kind of nervous breakdown my boss there was on the verge of, thinking that he was shortly going to be able to do a convincing impression of Kojak, minus lolly? Do you know how close_ I _was to a nervous breakdown, having to listen to him?_

But they're all pals now, near enough. Az even smirks a bit, listening to Charles on the phone, though only giving half of his attention to it. Charles is too busy delicately, carefully combing his fingers through his, by now, extremely scant locks, while glaring into space and yelling down the phone at Mystique, in the usual undisclosed location.

'Oh, very bloody amusing, sister mine,' he's ranting. 'Maybe it was funny for the first twenty-four hours – no, scratch that, the first _hour_. Funny for _you_. You couldn't have put me out of my misery after, I don't know, I'd spent the first day combing obsessively, and counting the hairs on the palm of my hand? The hairs on... No! Not growing there, woman! You put _Veet_ in my shampoo, not hair-growth-restorer, and last time I checked, the Xaviers do not sprout too many werewolves per generation!'

Since his transformation into full mutant form, and his decision to mostly roll with it, Hank's ears have been wonderfully sharp. He catches the words _mass of vanity_ on the other end of the line, and fights a snicker. Judging from Az's convulsions, his ears are equally sharp, and he's less concerned about being tactful about it. 

And Charles pulls himself up to his fullest height, seated, his face tight and offended. 'Raven, it is _not_ a matter of vanity, for a man to prefer not to be robbed of his crowning glory by a god damn _translocator_ , stealing about his home in the dark. And most _especially_ by adding depilatory ingredients to my bloody shampoo! Did you even check what was in that stuff, Raven? I could have been blinded, for all you know! Oh, you diluted it, did you, _damn good_ of you I have to say, most obliged. I'm sure with the scientific training you get from old copies of National Geographic, after you refused to go to science camp because, and I quote, _'Why Charles why it's full of geeks why I don't wanna'_ , your health and safety precautions were more than adequate, then!'

Down the other end of the line, there's a snarl that sounds awfully like _bloody hypochondriac_ , and Hank fears that Charles' head may pop like an over-ripe tomato. The sibling spat goes on, for many minutes. Hank gets sufficiently tired of it to decamp to the games room with Az, where they play doubles in ping-pong against Sean (and with him, for Az.)

'You think they're just gonna call it quits?' Sean speculates, referring to the sibling war currently raging. 'I mean it's fifteen-all at the mo.'

Az destroys him with a very nice backhand, and then saves the day instantaneously with a vicious curve. 'Really,' he sneers, not remotely out of breath. 'It's not as if Magneto is even in the game yet. He's still unconvinced that your dear Professor has anything to do with his tonsorial choices. He's quite magnificently infatuated with his current mop: although I don't think he's finished yet.'

And with a decisive _non-sequitur_ of a tight corner, he busts both their asses, and then throws down his bat, pushing a hand through his own elegantly incarnadine locks. 'His moustache gets longer: Emma gets angrier. And Mystique, I think the dear girl just likes to torture her brother a little, and here's the perfect excuse. We could be in for the long haul, my brothers in mutant woe and travail.'

And Sean hops up onto the table tennis table, and looks at him speculatively. 'You don't seem too aerated yourself, man,' he observes. 'Not got a horse in the race?' Az does indeed seem superlatively indifferent, relaxed and at ease.

And Az strolls up to him, still elegant, still fresh as a daisy and turned out like a well-fed mutant of means, well-used to the easy life and superb barbering and tailoring. And first flicks little Sean on the nose, then pulls at one strand of gloriously ginger hair. 'Why, small Irishman,' he drawls, and comes up close, practically nose-to-nose. 'I am full of goodwill regarding the matter, only participating for my own amusement. You see, as things stand, no-one has – yet – messed with _my hair_. Tell me, how would you feel, if you were to wake up one morning, and, say – discover that your hair had mysteriously turned blue overnight?'

There's sudden steel in Sean's expression. Hank had never realised that he set such store and pride in being a ginge. 'I'd bloody well swing for 'em,' he announces, and there is a ring of complete truth in his broad snarl.

'Then you see,' Az observes, with a graceful gesture. 'Let us hope this amusing little spat does not escalate into all-out war. Because when it comes to my hair, gentlemen, I take no prisoners. And if anyone messes with _Janos's_ hair...' He shrugs. 'Well, they say the world will either end in fire or ice. If Janos feels his hair is being disrespected, I feel it may end in a hairdresser's salon, and the most god-almighty twister the universe has ever seen.' And Az disappears, with the pop and the puff and more than a bit of a flounce. And stroking his hair, with proprietorial pride.

xxx

Oh, it escalates. What else was ever going to happen?

Hank wakes up, in furry and fully-mutated form – it's autumn, it's a bit nippy when the mansion radiators are on the blink, there are definite upsides to the full furry mutation. There are developments. When he goes to brush his monster teeth, there's something missing: about thirty per cent of his fur, to be precise. It's shaved, in a lawn-roller precise stripe, down from the top of his scalp, the middle of his face, his chest, downwards, right through more intimate areas, the insides of his thighs, down his back, ass, crack...

It is not that Hank is entirely resigned to his modified appearance. BUT HE'D JUST LIKE IT EITHER GONE OR IN FULL EFFECT, ALL RIGHT? NOT AT SEVENTY PER CENT STRENGTH! He runs out onto the landing of the mansion wing he's sleeping in, and he knows, he _knows_ it's none of the X-Men's fault, right? He knows what time it is! He knows that he musta been Mickey Finn'd and messed with by a Brotherhood member, equipped with a very fancy electric razor. The knowledge doesn't stop him howling, disturbing the neighbourhood, waking up the entire population of the mansion. And Charles is a little bastard when his sleep's disturbed. 

xxx

Sean and Hank are in on the game, at this point. They're outraged. (And Sean is nervous. He's taken to sleeping with a Wee Willie Winkie sleep-hat on, with his hair pushed up under it and the ribbons tied around his chin. It gives him an entirely fallacious sense of security, enough to get to sleep at least. It's also adorably cute, but no-one tells him that, since he's liable to take manly offence.) 

The X-Men do not shrink from reprisals. Quicksilver wakes up a week later, with braids and huge blue bows. (And a few freckles added in with an eyebrow pencil for good measure.) Not just _any_ braids: there are professional hair extensions involved, permanently attached, strongly glued. There's stitching and bonding and fine adhesive grips. No doubt it's a bit of a mystery to the poor lad. Hank 'acquires' reports of his response. Apparently his fellow Brotherhood members are so charmed and delighted with his new _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm_ look, that they refuse to let him at a pair of shears to remove them, for a good forty-eight hours.

Bribing Azazel into double-agent status, finding a highly experienced hairdresser willing to work with international unwitting supervillains, breaking into a secret lair based on intel of its resident telepath being in consultations in the garment district with a highly reputed French couturier: it was a bugger to arrange, maneouvre and schedule.

But when Charles calls them into his study to yell and accuse, Hank and Sean are admitting nothing. Hank's denuded stripe is just now growing back in. It seems well worth it.

xxx

There are new telephoto lens shots of someone purported to be Magneto in _Life_ magazine, that month. His 'tache has gone beyond Thirties gangster or Wodehouse bounder: it's entering biker handlebar 'tache territory, and his hair... Well. If he's seeking out an invitation to join Black Sabbath, or some other hairy heavy metal bunch, he's making a good start. Somewhere between that, and a Gaulish giant warrior, he looks. Less Asterix, more Obelix after a bout of banting and no potion. Charles examines the shot closely, and wonders whether it was Emma, or Raven, who thought, and persuaded him, that a thick braid either side of his grimly intent face, might ameliorate the comic effect. (Assuming their intent to be benign in relation to their Dear Leader, in the first place.) 

Especially as Erik is sporting the helmet, again, and his newly luscious locks are squeezed in beneath it, and spring out _from_ underneath with a startlingly auburn vigour, into the coils and curves of braids that end in a few loops of manly leather thongs. Well, comparatively manly, at any rate, Charles thinks.

'He really needs a Viking halberd or axe, to swing about and hurl at government agencies,' Charles decides. 'And he could do it with his powers, too. Terribly impressive.'

'What?' Hank enquires, looking up from his microscope, and peering over his horn-rimmed spectacles. The stripe is growing back in, now, but it's still a light-azure highway zooming through the sapphire forest of his fur.

'Oh, nothing,' Charles says, misgivings flaring. Dear sweet mild-mannered Hank, he thinks. Or at least he used to be. These days, the less encouragement the chap gets in mischief, the better.

xxx

Charles doesn't even bother to speculate about who's responsible, when he's called into a hostage situation as a matter of urgency, without checking the _bona fides_ of the call from Moira's 'assistant'. He gets alerted by the blank psionic field that descends as he enters the warehouse, and oblivion descends upon him. He's even less surprised to wake up with cornrows.

Unsurprised, but rather impressed, it must be conceded. His hair has, thank all the Gods, every single one, begun to grow back in, after Azazel's jolly little jape with the depilatory shampoo. But it's not that long since, and it isn't exactly all that lush yet. Anyone who could manage even the faintest imitation of a fancy braided 'do really ought to be applauded. After he has them clapped in irons, of course. 

Definitely impressed, though. When he's staggered out, woozy, and given Hank a short sharp jab to come pick him up, he can't stop checking himself out in the wing-mirror, so much so that Hank notices. And he turns his head this way and that, extremely thoughtful. 'I know my hair's really a bit insufficient for it at present,' he begins tentatively. 'But do you think – '

And Hank swerves as if to drive into oncoming traffic, as if even that's a better bet than having to answer that particular oncoming question. 'No,' is all he barks, horrified and admonitory. 'You even think about it, and I'm off to join Sesame Street. Don't even _think_ about it, Charles.'

xxx

So, Charles has had enough. He'd cry uncle, and try to get his unruly follicularly-obsessed troops under control, give a few guarantees of enforced good behaviour, if only Emma would speak to him. But he's well in the doghouse this past week or two, even if she wasn't in China, sorting out suppliers for her new whiteonwhiteonwhite look. Mystique, Az reports – still playing both sides, all ways, and engaged now in a doubles ping-pong tournament with himself and Charles versus the lads, that looks set to run and run, considering he's never going to actually beat himself – has become quite paranoid about her own locks getting interfered with, whether in their sturdy, languidly alien crimson shade, or the platinum gleam of her other preferred form. This, to such an extent that she's currently _incommunicado_ , even for the Brotherhood, and refusing to come out and play, until Emma can guarantee her that the whole prank war of the scissors is at an end. 

'But Emma has left a statement summarising her position on the matter, which I am authorised to transmit to you,' Az offers. 'You want to hear it, Charlie?'

'That's _Professor_ to you,' Charles snips, half-hearted. He's currently in fourth place in the tournament, and resorted to a swift dose of the serum last Sunday, when he was tired of lagging behind due to his underhand serve being a little weak at the table height. Complaining of his wheelchair-bound status and petitioning for handicapping hardly seems relevant, when the boys have yet to complain that a translocator, versus one bound in time and place, is hardly a fair fight.

'Okay, Professor Charlie,' Az says simply. 'Miss Em, she says you want to say potato, potarto, call the whole hairy thing off? You got to let go your evil mind-control hex on our beloved leader, that's all. 

Oh, a good Goddamn, Charles flexes his fingers whitely and grinds his teeth into submission. 'As I have already informed your resident psionic, Az – Erik's current, ah, _condition_ , is none of my doing!' He sighs, with the irony of it. Repetition is such a bore, when it's not your favourite story over scotch and soda, with a few cronies tolerant of tedium. 

'I admit – I haven't even particularly attempted to _conceal_ – that the initial blame was mine, and I regret it very much. Very much indeed, at this point. My sense of humour is regrettable and inappropriate, _mea culpa_ , I apologise extremely and am willing to make amends and engage in community service of your choice and wear sackcloth and ashes if necessary. But – and I cannot possibly emphasize this enough – there is simply _no possibility whatsoever_ , that the very moderate – ' and here he hesitates, because his ethical system is strict, and his British-nanny-induced sense of fair play and desire for full disclosure and honesty runs deep – but bugger that, he's disclosing quite enough here, and the Brotherhood are after all _the enemy_ – 'the extremely moderate,' he qualifies, firmly, 'mental, er, jab that I gave him, producing the desire to let his hair grow wild and free... Well. It should have worn off months ago. It _must_ have worn off months ago,' he expostulates impressively. 'I mean to say, my good man, my powers are pretty damn impressive, but there is a limit. The shot is absolutely, positively, not on the board. Stap me vitals, sirrah, I would be utterly amazed if...'

'Yah yah yah, jaw jaw,' Az says irritably. 'Have you seen him lately? Now it is less the Viking warrior, and more the Lady Godiva, hair all down his back and we have not seen his face for the overgrowth upon it for a fortnight at minimum. You may have the inclination to throw your hands up and disclaim all responsibility, but the fact remains that you are the only one who has admitted to playing sandcastles in Magneto's cerebral matter. Who else can be charged with the responsibility of bringing him to his senses, and restoring a nice, sharp, becoming Brutus cut? No-one, my friend.' Az snorts impressively. 'And thus, Emma's ultimatum. You fix what you have broken – you broke it, you bought it – or the pranks go on. Until the grave, Xavier: until the grave. You will have no hairs left to mess with, by the time we have ceased to meddle with them!'

Charles may be sulking at this point. Little bit. 'Oh, really. It's not as if I'm even refusing to co-operate. You're simply demanding an impossibility – or _she who rather likes to be obeyed_ is, at any rate. You've seen your lord and master, Az: it's all back on, with the helmet, lately. What am I supposed to do against that, even supposing I concede Emma's point that it's my doing in the first place?'

'No problem, sunny Jim,' Az responds, and with a one-two maneouvre and a bit of logistical jiggery-pokery, he sorts that right out, sunshine. Goddammit, Charles thinks, people who proffer solutions instead of sympathy. There oughtta be a law.

xxx

'So,' Charles says awkwardly, as Az triumphantly sets him down, chair and all, before Erik, in a study which, for a secret Brotherhood hideaway, appears to be rather closely modelled upon his own, back at the Westchester mansion. 'How goes it, old friend? You're looking, er, good.'

For a certain value of good, obviously. Az quite evidently wasn't at all joking about the hair. Or the 'tache. Or the beard. Or the eyebrows, even. If it was possible to grow your eyebrows out, then... Well, evidently, for a man of iron many things are possible. Possibly the extra haem in the blood, nourishing the follicles?

Erik, full and fair play to him, seems very little surprised, or discombobulated, by their instantaneous appearance, and Az's almost simultaneous retreat. He raises one – shaggy, very ginger – eyebrow, and motions his old friend over. 'Well, don't hover about over there, then, Charles. Come over here and keep me company. What are you having, while I'm pouring? Come and tell me all about why the Brotherhood is blessed with a flying visit from you. Not that you're not always welcome here.'

Erik has a really disreputable drinks cabinet, Charles finds out – not manly, minimalist and tasteful at all – which is surely Emma's doing, amongst other things. They wind up with a White Russian each, and Charles feels the little umbrella and cherry are going the whole hog, in a way that is mildly provocative. They give each other much side eye over the tops of their glasses, and Charles says, 'Very sweet of you, Erik. All things considered. I suppose I'm here for a confession, really, amongst other things.'

Erik begins to tinker with his cherry, and Charles really really hopes he isn't going to try for the knotting thing. Apart from any highly disturbing issues raised, the milky residue on his ginger lip-fringe will give a whole world of different and appalling meaning to the slogan 'Got Milk?' Charles pauses to wonder how cunnilingus works out for moustachio'd men, and then he clamps down upon the thought like billy-o. 

And Erik plays with one of his braids, the bastard, to surely intentional comic effect, rendering it a positive punishment to Charles to attempt to maintain a straight, penitent face. 'What, Charles? Confess that you thanked me for straightening up your horrible mop, by implanting the urge to grow my own?' He raises one eyebrow, featherily, and it's a little stern. Charles sobers up.

'Oh, so you know,' he says, redundantly. 'Well, of course. Az said they've all spent time trying to persuade you it wasn't your own idea. Well,' he says, avoiding Erik's stern green stare, 'it did seem quite funny at the time, Erik. But I'm certainly sorry about it now, and I regret it very much, and if you'll just take that helmet off and let me have a proddle about like a good lad, I'll be on my way as soon as I've sorted you out. The idea of a nice clean shave and a visit to the barber's will be looking much more attractive shortly.' He gives it all the earnest blue-eye he can muster. This needs fixing. He can't live with the petty wrath of Emma Frost hanging over him in perpetuity. War, grudges and _grand guignol_ , fine: prank wars taking up energy and time for both the X-Men and the Brotherhood, no.

But Magneto is leaning back in his lovely leather wing-back: a knock-off of Charles' original, yes, but a good one. And he's looking... his mouth twitches. Even under the fringe, Erik has his tells. 'And what makes you think that my mind requires any – untangling, Charles? Didn't you tell Az that any meddling you may have done should have worn off by now?'

Um. Charles doesn't enjoy feeling bewildered, wrong-footed. He doesn't usually need to, seeing as most folks are a transparent open book, with or without power-shunning helmets, whether he has an unethical proddle around in their grey matter or no. Not Erik, of course. Erik has always been opaque to him, the muddle of Charles' own feelings getting in the way, interfering with getting a good reading. He shuts his mouth and thinks before he speaks. 'Well,' he says slowly, 'it certainly should have done... But since you're still – ' he gestures helplessly at Erik's... hair curtains. 'I assume that...'

Erik looks much too amused. He may be trying for _politely inquiring_ , but that is _definitely_ amused. With a touch of _woolly mammoth_. 'Erik,' Charles says sharply. 'You're doing this _deliberately_. The hair. Why would you do this deliberately?'

Erik leans forward, takes the decanter and tops up their glasses. Less White Russians, now, more faintly turbid neat voddie. He passes the glass back to Charles, their fingers brush, he closes his eyes a moment. 'Charles. Don't you think this is a good look for me?' His long fingers brush, now, over his braids, his beard, linger and settle, stroking his chin, his mouth.

Honestly, Charles would merely like to say _hell no_ , but it's not strictly factual. Most looks are good looks on Erik. But it's still eccentric, not to say _outré_. Not to say deeply out of favour with Emma. It's never going to be Charles' preferred look for Erik, either, put it that way. 'Do you?' he asks, evasive.

'I love it,' Erik says, grinning smugly. 'Plus, it also has the added benefit of driving Emma up the wall, and setting her onto your little army with all her energy and wiles. Very restful for me, I can tell you. As well as entertaining.'

Charles puts his hands to his face, and wishes strongly for a second drink, a third. 'Erik,' he pleads. 'Why would you do that? Why, why... Why?' It may be more piteous than he intended.

'Well, why _wouldn't_ I?' Erik asks. His voice is light, but it's hard too, and Charles allows his hands to slip from his face. Expression matches voice. 'Why wouldn't I stir up trouble, and set my boys and girls on your pert ass, eh? Isn't that what you did with me, messing with my mind, and after I'd done a nice thing for you, too?'

Charles opens his mouth to speak, and finds a metal drinks tray hovering a bit too close for comfort. He shuts his mouth again. 'That was a _nice thing_ , Charles,' Erik says drily. 'Believe me. You may be questioning my aesthetic judgement right now, but it's not like I was the only one who was telling you.'

Charles is baffled, frustrated, his hands flex out in inchoate distress. 'And in return, you play a mean joke on me,' Erik says reflectively, flexing his own fingers, more ominously than Charles ever could, so that he flinches from the still-hovering tray. 'What _did_ you do that for, Charles?'

Something bubbles up at the back of Charles' neck, slides through his head bitter as aloes, burning as rum. Bitter, bitter intoxicant. He'd not answer, storm out of here, if only he had Az to hand, to help him make some kind of dignified exit. It spits out of him of its own volition, anyhow. 'You were leaving, weren't you? You're _always_ leaving. I gave you a little goodbye present. That's all.' And he shuts up his mouth, and gives a thin smile that isn't going to fool anyone. Not Erik, not him.

And the metal tray drops, just like that. Bounces on the desk and the floor. 'You could have asked me to stay,' Erik points out. 'Or to visit. And I would have, if you'd only asked. If I'd known I'd be welcome.'

The little silence is more than awkward. Charles has to grit it out, but he manages to say, 'You're always welcome.' 

Erik inclines his head. And he says, 'But instead of that, you decided to turn me into the wild man of Borneo, Bigfoot, a werewolf... some other hairy beast without access to fine tailoring and a decent barber. Eh? And I kept thinking you were making a point... at least after the jab you'd administered wore off.' He muses, rubbing his furry chin. 'I did spent the first three weeks thinking it was my own idea, and that I looked a fine fellow with a fringe and loose flowing locks.'

Charles remembers the Beatle-cut phase, and can't repress a snigger. The metal tray rises warningly, and he shuts it, sharpish. Besides, he can't but react when Erik adds, 'Then I thought, well, Charles is a reasonable man, he operates according to logic and teleological system. He won't have done this just for a rather mean-spirited laugh. There must be a purpose. And I know what it is: when he decides I've made enough of a display of myself, he'll come and return the favour I did him. He'll cut my hair, be my Delilah, restore my strength instead of reducing it. Won't he? Won't you, Charles? That is what you intended, isn't it?'

And Charles sits there with his mouth gaping open, and it's like the math problem is laid out before him, all nicely squared up on graph paper, and yet he can't quite add it up, can't work through the fancy steps, take the velocity off the curve. Not consciously anyhow: he has to let his hindbrain tick over a while, do it for him. His mouth drops open, and something speaks. 'You were waiting for that?' he queries. He feels no odd prickle up his spine, because he's not currently capable. But otherwise... 'You wouldn't get it cut, because you were _waiting for me?_ '

And Erik rolls his eyes, and it's like home, like a good few years back when the mansion really was, briefly, a home. 'Not _just_ that. How you do flatter yourself, Charles. It was _also_ an amusement, to covertly put the blame on you to my crew, to see them hunt and harry you, give your mob some of their own back. While insisting that _no, long hair is simply the latest mode, Emma. A Brutus is_ infra dig _this season, I can't believe you're trying to inflict it on me_.' Erik's smile has never been other than sly, and terrifying. 'After all, it provided you with an amusement to begin with: only fair that your side should return the favour. But yes,' he allows, with a reluctant nod, that shakes his beard, lets a breath steal through his bangs. 'I think you owe me an hour's service, a little attention with the razor and the shears, Charles. If you want to put it that way, I have been waiting for you.'

In the bathroom of his lair – dear god, mirrors and purple velveteen wallpaper, and if Emma approved _that_ then Charles is a Dutchman, less remotely removed than sixth generation Founding Father Pennsylvania Dutch – Erik performs that exact same trick, the one with the metal spheres, to provide Charles with barbering implements. But as he seats himself neatly between Charles' knees, swiftly shampooed and ready for the blade, he flinches away, just for a moment. 

'What are you worrying about?' Charles scolds, something unfolding and warming in his heart, as he combs out long damp locks, much redder when wet. 'I've had _one drink -- two_ , I'm not going to _gouge_ you or anything.'

'But it's not that,' Erik sighs, and there's wistfulness in his tone. 'It was very handy, Charles, to have my crew blame you for my choices in the matter of style. It meant I didn't have to fend them off and justify it myself. But, Charles,' he says, and his hand brushes – fondly, much too fondly – over that magnificent – in a twisted way – handlebar moustache. Long fingers grasp possessively at a long, long strand of hair. 'Charles, I have got very used to my hair, my mountain-man mystique. In the end... after all... don't you think it's quite a good look on me? Do you really think it necessary...'

And Erik's eyes meet Charles' in a full-length mirror, and Charles has never seen so much pleading in them as in this moment. And they've had a few moments, not half. He could soften, he could weaken. But he stiffens his sinews and renews his resolve. He has the wrath of Emma to think of. And he wants the old Erik back, more ways than one. 'Not bloody likely, Erik,' he says. And with one slice, he takes off the first swingeing hank of hair. 'Call me Delilah.'

**Author's Note:**

> Sean's in it, because... he just is okay?
> 
> Wendyshad, I made of your lovely, wistful, precision-engineered little vignette, a high-pitched vicar-where's-me-troosis farce with a slight side order of crackified melancholy. Ah, sorry about that.
> 
> Regarding the first paragraph, I defy anyone to prove to me that's there's such a thing as too many syllables.


End file.
